Wednesday, February 19, 2014

February Syndrome

Winter. The longest eight months of the
year. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. Every November, when the clouds
roll in, when the trees give up their abundance, I have to admit a sort of
happiness, a giddy joy crawls into my gut. Fall, in all its splendor, has ascended old summer’s
throne. When the frost creeps in over the leaves, when it forces me to wear
shoes, for a while there is excitement. There are hoodies in this part of the
year; heavy wool sweaters and jeans, oranges and greens and reds. Pumpkin-spice
candles that smell nothing like pumpkins; campfire smoke that sinks into
your skin.

It means that you’ll be firing up the
ovens for baking, and getting rid of the ice-cubes in your coffees. You’ll need
it black, strong and warm to make it through the storm of silence that’s coming. It means
cover up the grill, but we’ll make homemade pizza; it means split the wood,
and, eventually sit back and watch the snow fall. It’s a signal to the summer
lovers to bundle up, crawl into their holes with the other groundhogs and pop
themselves full of vitamins. Put on your helmet and pads, like the guys making money on TV. Time to hibernate.

Everyone loves fall. Most people even
like Winter.

But nobody likes February*.

February is a mile-marker, congratulating
you on making it this far. But at the same time, it’s like a warning. You’ll
never make it. “News Flash,” says February. “Winter never ends.” Never? Some
days it seems like February is right. Maybe the sun won’t come back. Maybe the
clouds will be in charge from now on.

Maybe I’ll just have to get used to
spruce trees being sharp. Maybe I’ll have to get used to icy mornings and
slushy afternoons, mud and rain, and above all else the grey.

Grey. Lifeless grey, everywhere you look.
Soul-sappingly Monotonous. It’s the monotony that does it, that pushes me over
the edge. No green. No color worth mentioning at all. Cold, harsh, February;
without life, without inspiration. It gets into you like a disease and leeches
out the nutrients that should be on a one-way track to your soul. (Side affects
of February may include: Grumpiness. Long stretches of silence. Increase of
coffee intake without feeling any happier. Increased boredom, agitation,
overall lack of inspiration and creativity, overwhelming depression. In short, February is a parasite
that chomps into your brain-marrow.)

Cabin-Fever. Stir-Crazy. Call it what you want. I call it February Syndrome.

It’s like wading through wet cement.
Maybe you’ll get out, maybe you wont. It depends on whether you listen to the
patches of blue, or the ocean of charcoal.

But here’s the good news.

(Spoiler warning)

February. Ends.

In fact, you’re most of the way through
it already. Like a twilight that lasts for twenty-eight days, there’s sunlight on the other side. There’s color, somewhere out there. There’s a spring full of
birds and a summer full of green grass. There is ice to put in your coffee,
once you get there. A warm breeze to pat you on the back. Dehydration and
sunburn; sweat and peeling skin. Lawn-mowing. Paradise.

For all the other groundhogs who may be
reading this: you’re almost there. Just a little further. Tie up your scarves
tight, if you want, or wear your flip-flops in protest, but either-way,
February will end. It’s a tunnel, and the track runs through it, and it’s the
only way to the other side of the mountains. The train keeps moving.

Until we reach the summer station, time
to kick back. Turn up the Andrew Belle (always the answer) and pretend it’s not sad. Make another
Americano, because you’ve earned it. Maybe a Latte, because you’re extra
special. Tea, maybe, because you’ve already had three coffees today and its
only noon. Maybe read a book. Maybe try to write one (good luck with that.)

Until February Ends,

-Jeff

*Proof: When the months were divided,
February was decidedly the least favorite of all involved, and was therefore
made to be the shortest. Which is also why leap years are worse than broken bones.(Overall outcry has forced me to edit a previous statement: Apparently not everyone hates February. No, I don't know why.)

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About Me

My name is Jeff. I am a writer of words, and a servant of King Jesus. Lover of good books, great coffee, dear friends and sunshine, living in a world forged by words, in a land spun from golden summers and grey winters. I see things differently, and I write what I see.